2019-06-04 - Coffee & Waffles

There's some vaguely twangy music playing on the radio behind the front counter; the sort of music one needs a pair of gumboots and a cowboy hat to fully appreciate. It's fairly safe to say that the gentleman slouched in one of those vinyl-covered seats, digging into what's got to be either a really late lunch or a really early dinner, owns neither. He's attired in black on black on black; a ballistic vest and duty rig over a standard PD uniform. Visibly armed and probably on a quick break from some sort of duty rotation - along with the officer seated to his right. His radio crackles occasionally, turned up just high enough for him to make out anything critical that requires his attention, though it seems to be ignored for the most part.

Sutton walks in yawning, back of her hand pressed to her lips. She makes her way over to the counter, the tread of her motorcycle boot squeaking a bit on the flooring with it catches. She finishes up writing a text on her phone, and steps around someone, then leans a hip against the counter. She's a little damp from the rain, droplets spotted across the shoulders of her tee. Her long, loosely waved hair is pulled up in a messy twist and secured with a pencil, definitely in danger of slipping free. She wears black cargo pants, a belt with buckle, and an old Seattle FD tee, PARAMEDIC in faded letters across the back. "Two bacon and egg sandwiches, one extra bacon on wheat. One on rye. Both with shredded cheddar to go, and some fries for here, and hot water in a mug. Thanks." She digs into her pocket for some wadded up cash, and spends a while at the counter smoothing it before she hands it over to the cashier on duty. She mutters something under her breath. Kind of a mess right now, this one. Her mascara has started to bleed a bit. Eventually, the chirp of that radio enters into her consciousness enough that she realizes it's actually in the room and not in her head, and she glances over to catch sight of the cops almost within arm's reach.

Officer the second is in the midst of telling a long-winded joke about an Italian chef and a goat that seems to have some sort of sexual overtones. Convoluted ones, judging by the look on Ruiz's face. Though that may simply be his standard RBF. The older cop looks over when someone walks in and takes a lean against the counter not three feet away, and immediately launches into an order that probably requires at least three acts to cover.

Dark eyes slide over her briefly, and take note of the PARAMEDIC on the back of her jacket. And then the running mascara. And then he resumes chewing slowly. Despite it being neither lunchtime nor dinnertime, he's ordered breakfast: some sort of egg and meat hash. "Evening," greets the younger cop, a big black guy who has a good 80 pounds on Ruiz and roughly twice the appetite.

"Don't talk to me, love." Sutton's reply is swift for the younger cop. She glances up from finishing a text on her phone, then slides it into the side pocket of her cargo pants, zipping that halfway closed. She glances up, finally. "You're the radio mumbler. I hate that. Do you know how many times I turned my headset up for you only to get blasted by 187 because he's still pissed about the last three crazy old lady runs?" The slight English accent of hers lingers only on a few words, notably the love. There's absolutely no mistaking her voice as the usual daytime dispatch. Perhaps her mood declines in direct proportion to how runny her mascara. "Evening." Sutton leans against the counter near the register, and Ruiz is seated with another cop at the counter about three feet away from her.

Chloe had finished some work on her soon-to-be clinic and decided to stop in at the diner before heading home. It was easy to get absorbed in the work and then just forget to eat. At least, for her it was. She was wearing a pair of faded blue jeans and an old white t-shirt that had some paint stains on it. A windbreaker was thrown over top to help against the slight chill in the air. Taking a look around to see who all was in the diner this afternoon, she made her way up to the counter so she could put in an order for a burger and fries.

The ribbing gains a chortle from the Radio Mumbler, and he shoves a forkful of waffle into his mouth before proving her nickname for him by mumbling around it, "I'm guessing this means we ain't on for a date Friday night, then, honey?" How much of that she'll be able to make out, is up for debate. Ruiz, meanwhile, is shaking his head and trying not to smile, to little success. "Sutton, yes? I think I have heard you on the radio." He's a little more reserved than his buddy, and speaks with a bit of a sloping accent. Some flavour of Spanish; the hard consonants make it most likely Mexican. Chloe gets a flick of his eyes as well, before they return to his food. His radio goes off again, and the volume is nudged down a hair.

Sutton's arms slip loosely crossed and she eyeballs the larger cop. She catches enough of that waffle-mouthed mumbling and a 'honey' to know that 187's off the hook on end-of-shift trash runs and bullshit calls. The brunette reaches up to brush her hand across her cheek, and it's at that point she notices her mascara's doing a runner. She tubs her fingertips together, then leans over to grab a napkin across mumbles' place. "Pardon me." She says that well after she's already reached across him. To Ruiz, she replies, "Yes. For about a month, I've been on days. Couple late weekends. Not much longer, hopefully." She straightens up and dabs under her eyes. She glances over her shoulder and moves out of the way of the cash register, so Chloe can comfortably complete her order. "Sorry." She moves down to take a seat next to mumbles, her back to the counter. This allows her an easy lean to talk to both cops.

Chloe vaguely recognizing Ruiz from the other day and doesn't recognize Sutton at all. None the less, they both get upnods of greeting and a friendly enough smile. "Not a problem." Is offered to Sutton and a thank you to the worker behind the counter when her tea is set down. Taking a slow sip. A wrinkle of her nose when her phone started going off, signaling a text message. It was amazing how she didn't have any real patients or anything yet and somehow her phone always seemed to be blowing up. She checked the message and rolled her eyes. Place a couple bills on the counter. "Sorry," to the worker, "Cancel that order. I have to run." Adding a couple extra dollars for the inconvenience. Then turned to depart, getting on the phone with whomever had texted her.

Ruiz puts his fork down for a moment in order to key the mic on his headset, and reply to a request from dispatch. Something about BOLO for a runner who might be armed, and a units needed on standby. "Copy, dispatch. Confirm P3, keep me updated." By the time he looks up to offer a greeting Chloe's way, she's headed out the door. A flickering smile is offered to Sutton while the mumbler openly ogles her while she leans across to grab a napkin. Once she's claimed the seat, the captain offers in a low murmur, "Eres paramedico. Why do they have you on dispatch? Injury?" He watches her clean up the mess made by the mascara, then indicates with the tip of his finger to the corner of his own eye, that she missed a spot.

Sutton glances over, eyes skimming past Waffles to Ruiz. She apparently wasn't bitchy enough to the former, or he just likes the abuse. "Yes. Instead of medical leave, I was lent out to dispatch." She shakes her head and scams a quarter of a waffle off of her fan club's plate, eating it with her fingers while she waits for her fries. "I have about a week on my sentence before I get another scan to be sure I'm fit to return to duty on the right side of the building." That would be the Fire side. She glance over at Waffles. "Be nice to the medic. She decides how much morphine you get in the field." There's a moment of silence as she eats her ill-gotten waffle, swiped in plain view of two peacekeepers. She licks a bit of butter off her thumb. "You must be the new Captain." Gossip flies, so chances are good she knows him by his rank and accent.

Sutton reaches up to slide her finger under her eye where Ruiz indicated, then dabs it with the napkin. She folds it over and tries again, just to be sure she got all the migrating black. You'd think natives of Seattle would throw out their non-waterproof mascara.

He does seem like a glutton for punishment. And waffles. Probably not in that order. "You know I'm always good to you, Everly," says mumbles, white teeth flashing in a mock attempt to snap at her. "I only bite when you ask real nice." Which is a lie. He's a teddy bear, and literally couldn't hurt a fly. True story, ask the guys on the third floor what happened. "Fire Department is on the left, la ultima vez que lo comprobe." He looks amused as he watches the robbery in progress, and his eyes find Sutton's for a moment when she addresses him. "Yes." More food goes into his mouth. He's more of an eater than a talker, clearly. "It is a.. como se dice, pintoresco?" The question is put to his buddy, who helpfully translates for him around a mouthful of waffle. "Quaint," Ruiz repeats.

He does seem like a glutton for punishment. And waffles. Probably not in that order. "You know I'm always good to you, Everly," says mumbles, white teeth flashing in a mock attempt to snap at her. "I only bite when you ask real nice." Which is a lie. He's a teddy bear, and literally couldn't hurt a fly. True story, ask the guys on the third floor what happened.

The captain interjects then, gesturing with his fork, "Fire Department is on the left, la ultima vez que lo comprobe." He looks amused as he watches the robbery in progress, and his eyes find Sutton's for a moment when she addresses him. "Yes." More food goes into his mouth. He's more of an eater than a talker, clearly. "It is a.. como se dice, pintoresco?" The question is put to his buddy, who helpfully translates for him around a mouthful of waffle. "Quaint," Ruiz repeats.

"Fuck fuck's sake." This from Sutton as her given name is intoned by the waffle-eating radio-mumbler. "I will send you to every wack job that crawls out of the woodwork. I hope you like domestics thirty minutes before log off." She tips back, leaning just far enough to look at the Captain around Waffles. She gives him those slightly narrowed eyes before she says to Waffles, "Holy shit, you mumble in two languages." Sutton's dark eyebrows rise slightly more. She glances between the two of them, then leans over to snag another napkin, this time to wipe her hands.

"You should check again. Sometimes they move things unexpectedly on you around here." Sutton reaches for Waffles' water, helping herself to a sip before she turns to face the counter, right as a mug of hot water finally arrives. Out of another pocket, she pulls a little silicone tea bag loaded with something that smells incredibly spicy. She drops the loose leaf chai blend into the cup and hooks it to the edge so it steeps submerged. She tops the cup with its saucer to hold in the heat.

"I think your flirting with him is only going to encourage him," opines the mild-mannered captain on the heels of a sip of his coffee. Judging by the dark smudges under his eyes and the weariness strung through his shoulders, he's going to need it to get through the rest of his shift. His radio goes off again, and his attention is diverted for a beat before he resumes eating. EMS needed for a deceased person found in their home. Natural causes, one presumes, or the PD would have been pulled in. Waffles, meanwhile, is climbing to his feet as he announces he needs to take a leak. Sutton gets an air kiss on his way by; nothing's going to harsh his mellow. And he probably does like the flirting. Whether or not it's intended as such. "I think your sandwich is ready," Ruiz points out with a nod toward the to-go box on the counter, corners of his eyes creasing slightly with the brief smile he offers the blonde.

"It doesn't matter how abusive I am. All the cops just eat it up." Sutton shakes her head. "You should all have your heads examined." She tips back again, turning her head the other way. Her streaked hair finally slipping loose of what was probably a tight twist at some point in the day. She reaches up absently to catch the pencil, tugging it out of her hair. She drags the to-go box over and then turns back to the two. Or the one, as Waffles is making his pass-and-saunter to the little boy's room. She watches him go. "Jesus," is muttered under her breath.

"Are you trying to get rid of me, Captain?" She seems vaguely amused at that, removing the saucer from her tea before she dumps the reusable tea bag into it. She reaches for the white sugar and pours some in, exactly two teaspoons. She liberates one of those from Waffles' roll of flatware. "Are you adjusting to all the rain we have?" She stirs her spicy tea slowly, then adds a couple of cream cups to cool it down. Not going anywhere until she finishes her tea, apparently. And fries, which arrive just as she's about to say something else.

All the cops. The Hispanic fellow makes a soft noise in his throat that's vaguely disparaging. Or might be, if it wasn't completely unintelligible. "Maybe you have been talking to the wrong cops." Or the right ones. He doesn't look like he bites; he's got that lazy, lackadaisical look about him, and just enough beard growth to fall in between 'carefully trimmed' and 'couldn't be bothered to shave this morning, yesterday morning, or the one before that'. No response to whether he's trying to get rid of her. Just a little smile as he watches her load up on sugar and cream. Then lifts his eyes to her profile. Blows on his coffee, and sips. "I do not mind it." The rain. "It reminds me a little of home." And then he ventures, "Are you a local? Or a.." It takes him a moment to find the word. "Transplant."

Sutton takes Waffles' fork, too, rather than unroll another set of silver. She spears a fry and ferries it to her mouth. "Hm." She tries one more, then slides the fries over to Waffles' place setting so he can finish them for her when he returns from his constitutional. "My brother would say all the cops are the wrong ones." She looks both a little amused and a little something else at that, but it all pans out into a slight smirk, one where she doesn't make eye contact. She picks up her mug to take a sip, to test out how well that chai blooms in the diner's version of hot water. "Born in Seattle. Local enough. Mum's not from around here." Which would help explain her lazy and muddled accent. "I feel it rains more here than in Seattle, though. Something about all the trees." She glances out the window where it's raining still. "What brings you to this place?" She turns a little, her side to the counter where her elbow rests, mug between her hands. "From...?"

"Arlington." That would be Virginia. And that would also be a cop-out, because that accent of his is not Virginian in the slightest. He watches the blonde for a long, long moment after she's spoken and he's spoken, and lets the silence sit between them. His radio crackles a couple of times, but it's traffic not intended for him. That twangy country music is still going in the background, the waitress on duty bopping her foot to the 'beat' from where she's perched behind the counter. "Your brother is.." He pauses, and a soft crease forms between his brows before he looks away from the EMT. "Lo siento." And, "Work. Work brings me here." Not true.

There's a thumb when she puts down her mug. "Mhm." Sutton flicks her fingers through her hair before she pulls it back, and uses the pencil to twist it up again. She slides the pencil into place to secure it tightly this time. "Virginia. That was going to be my first guess." Her delivery is dry, but she picks up her mug without further comment on it, at least for now.

"Thanks." She finally murmurs, long after condolences are offered. "Work, really." Again, dry. Sutton is the picture of subtlety. Or perhaps she simply disbelieves everything a man offers up so easily. Her hazel eyes finally rise to his face again, and she studies the eyes of the older man. She sips her tea, mug in her left hand, her right hand creeping up her tattooed arm to scratch just over her elbow. "Could say the same for me, but really it was drunken job roulette, and a bunch of online applications I don't remember filling out, as such."

If Sutton is attuned to the fabric of this dreary little town in the slightest, then she knows full well that nobody comes here 'for work'. Nobody, unless they're lying, or blind to the flame that pulls Glimmerati in like drunken moths, or both. He sips his coffee and meets her gaze steadily, though one could not truthfully say easily. He watches her like he's assessing something about her. He watches as she coils her hair up and pins it with that pencil, a lock slipping free despite her best efforts. And if he has any ink, it's completely hidden under his layers of clothing. "Lucky for us, then, that you wound up with the fire department." A twinge of a smile after a moment or two of solemnity, like he had to remind himself to do so. "Or there would be nobody to keep us in line." And by 'us', he clearly doesn't mean him; one doesn't make captain in this precinct when one is a pushover.

"Isn't that the truth." Sutton shakes her head, sipping her tea again. "Before my injury, one guy cut his ankle open hopping a fence after some nineteen year old pot dealer. He only needed about six stitches, but he couldn't unhook his boot from the top of the fence alone. We took a few photos before we got him down." Because the EMS is compassionate like that. Sutton smiles, matte red lips quirked up at the corners. "That guy's never writing me a speeding ticket." Anyone who pays the slightest bit of attention at shift change has probably seen her catching a Lyft, so it's not like she drives to get pulled over.

Again, the paramedic watches the captain for a long moment. She takes a deep breath of the spiced scent of her tea, already too cool to steam. "I don't have the stomach for strapping into a bullet resistant vest every day. When we stage behind SWAT is bad enough. It was always going to be Fire for me."

Ruiz chuckles into his cup of coffee, and though his manner is easy and his shoulders relaxed, something about what she's said causes him to turn inward ever so slightly. Could've been anything, really. "Por supuesto," he murmurs on the heels of her story about the pot dealer. Why wouldn't they take pictures first? "I have nothing but respect for the fire department," he explains quietly. Speech a little slower than some, like he's trying to make sure he gets the words right. "I worked with a company in the navy. Lost four of them to a backfire that went.. that failed." He sips his coffee again, gaze shifting briefly to Waffles as the man returns from his epic tinkle, and slides back in between them. "Too much accelerant. We lost the control line, and.." And she can probably guess at the rest. The Hispanic man gestures with his cup while his buddy tucks into his food. "How did you get hurt?"

Sutton sweeps a chunk of streaked blonde hair out of her eyes, tucking it up into the caramel mid-tones and darker strands at her crown. It stays for a moment. She finishes her tea, setting the mug down on the counter, briefly licking her lips. She reaches for a napkin, tugging it free of the dispenser before folding it in quarters. Her jaw shifts slightly when he mentions a fire doing what fires do. "Yes." Yes isn't so much a confirmation as an understanding. The way she says it suggests she's been through something similar, or said goodbye to friends for a reason not too far off that. She dabs the corners of her mouth. "It's a horrible thing." She doesn't say she's sorry, doesn't have to. It's in her voice.

At the question about her injury, she says softly, "Oh. Me." Sutton hmms. She seems to be the one searching for words now. "I caught something I should have dropped, by myself, at a bad angle. My back disagreed with my decision."

Ruiz seems to focus more on his own food again, with the big guy interposed between them. Might be partly to keep up appearances that he's not on overly friendly terms with the 'rival' department, or it might just be because it's a little trickier to watch her with Waffles in the way. "Si," is all he says to Sutton's non-apology. The words themselves aren't needed; she knows, and he knows. You go to that place and you don't quite come back. And it's both a fortuitous thing and an isolating thing that most people don't have any comprehension of it.

"Yes. You." His eyes crease at the corners again when he smiles slightly, and then the last of his food disappears into his mouth and his fork is set down with a soft clatter. A swipe of his napkin across his chin, in case he got any food caught in his beard, and then it's flicked atop his nearly-empty plate and he eases back in his chair with a creak of his gear. "Very common injury for EMS." Second most common, if they're counting. "We will miss you on the radio." Is he flirting, or being polite? Hard to tell.

Sutton watches Waffles accept the magical bounty of fries with little comment. She shakes her head again, just slightly, but that smirk quirks the corners of her mouth still. She appreciates a man of simple pleasures, it seems. As long as he's not calling her Everly.

"It's the most common," comes her confirmation. She slides her cup over to the other side of the counter, then fishes around in her pocket for a few crumpled bills, tossing them onto the counter by way of tip for the tea and fries. "It's common and boring."

Sutton chuckles, then: "I know you will. I give good radio, and barely follow protocol. I'm very good at stress relief, dealing with mumblers, and not being an utter twat even when half of you definitely deserve it." She slides the boxed sandwiches off the counter and into her lap. By you, she probably means the patrol cops, at least in that last instance. "Look at it this way, if you ever have a medical emergency, you know who to call. I'm even better at my actual job."

The blonde gets a wink from the big guy, who crams a few fries into his mouth and mumbles something unintelligible around them. Hey, he's got to keep his energy up. He's probably back on the beat tonight, while Ruiz is flying a desk somewhere. God knows why he's sporting his duty rig when the only thing he's likely to be vanquishing is a box of donuts and a stack of paperwork. But small towns have a slightly different way of doing things sometimes.

The comment about giving good radio actually gets a laugh out of the older cop. He leans into his hip slightly in order to tug out his wallet, and withdraw a couple of folded bills from it. Enough to pay for his and his buddy's lunch. Or dinner. Whatever the hell it is. "Moretti here, he just wants your number. Even if he has to injure himself to get it. Si?" Moretti reaches around Sutton to try to give his boss a shove, but it's telegraphed from a mile off and obviously misses.

The blonde gets a wink from the big guy, who crams a few fries into his mouth and mumbles something unintelligible around them. Hey, he's got to keep his energy up. He's probably back on the beat tonight, while Ruiz is flying a desk somewhere. God knows why he's sporting his duty rig when the only thing he's likely to be vanquishing is a box of donuts and a stack of paperwork. But small towns have a slightly different way of doing things sometimes.

The comment about giving good radio actually gets a laugh out of the older cop. He leans into his hip slightly in order to tug out his wallet, and withdraw a couple of folded bills from it. Enough to pay for his and his buddy's lunch. Or dinner. Whatever the hell it is. "Moretti here, he just wants your number. Even if he has to injure himself to get it. Si?" Moretti leans in to give his boss a shove, and the Hispanic cop takes it like a champ; shoulder jostled slightly, eyes still amused.

"Sorry, Moretti. I gave you my fries." Sutton claps the younger cop on the shoulder and moves to rise. "One per customer, love." She tucks the sandwiches in a box against her hip, secured there by one hand. If she wasn't off shift, she'd probably be raiding the donuts first. She always steals the good ones when cop guard is down, or when they're all in roll call.

"You boys take it easy, hm? Watch yourselves." Whether they're riding a beat or the desk, they both still leave and enter the district in uniform. And sometimes that in itself is dangerous. She reaches down to slip her phone out of her pocket. "I'm going to go get a ride from a stranger and cuddled up on my couch with a bottle of wine." This is how horror movies start. She taps the screen of her phone, navigating through the Lyft app. She pauses, then glances up. She looks at Ruiz, then blatantly checks his name tag. She glances at Moretti, then back; the corner of her mouth twitches. She says, "Dime con quién andas, y te diré quién eres."

His nametag reads: 'J. Ruiz De la Vega'. The bars on his collar would seem to suggest a captain, which jives with his apparent age and overall demeanor. Moretti mumbles something about hating to see her go, but loving to watch her leave. Or one presumes that's what he's said, anyway. Ruiz watches the EMT quietly after the last thing she says. Her eyes, that little twitch of her mouth. Her phone, briefly, like he can't help himself.

He's brought back by the crackle of his radio, and his buddy hurriedly pushing to his feet when he realises that one's his. Finally, "Talk to you tonight, Sutton," offers the older cop with a small smile. They don't interact often over the airwaves, but once or twice per night is not unusual. And now he has a face to match to the voice.

Sutton wouldn't know what Waffles said, since he's a mumbler. She mms. "I'm off until the morning. If you're held over, then you'll get to say good morning to my voice." She glances from Waffles to Ruiz, and the smile notches up. "Captain." She taps something else in her phone, glances down at the screen, sigh softly at something. "Night, loves." That's her parting shot before she's heading down toward the ladies room, to use the facilities before her Lyft arrives to ferry her off somewhere in the tiny town, likely home, where she keeps all of her wine. That last is an example of how she refuses to quite follow protocol, because it's how she signs off at the end of her shift. She's gotten a talking to about it more than once, but no one seems to have the heart anymore.